Let's Kill Uncle

by Rohan O'Grady; Rohan O’Grady

  ‘Yes, sir. At the store.’ Barnaby pointed it out. ‘I’ll get them for you, if you like. Are you staying at the lodge at Benares?’

  How delightfully polite these Canadian children were. The tall American decided he would have to have a word with his own son when he got home.

  ‘Yes, we are. We’ve been doing some big-game hunting in Alaska, and we’re stopping off for some fishing on our way back.’

  Barnaby beamed.

  ‘I hope you catch some. Mr Brooks, he runs the store and I stay with him, he says we have the best salmon fishing in the world. Have you got your bait yet?’

  ‘No.’

  Barnaby smiled again.

  ‘Oh, you must get it from Mr Brooks. He has fresh herring bait. And if you get it from Mr Brooks you can fish on the way to Benares. Mr Brooks knows exactly where the salmon are running this morning.’

  The tall man laughed and, rumpling Barnaby’s hair, asked him if he was in the herring-bait business.

  Seeing not a soul about except the boy and being honest men themselves, they left their guns, rods arid cases on the wharf as they accompanied Barnaby to the store.

  Ten minutes later, bearing cigarettes and bait, they waved goodbye to the charming, helpful boy who had never been out of their sight for a moment.

  Barnaby and Christie danced a gleeful little jig in the village square. Alone, unaided and with no trouble at all they had accomplished what they had expected to be the most difficult part of their mission.

  Barnaby decided that after dark he would sneak out of bed, go to the shed, get the gun and hide it in Desmond’s shack.

  The next morning even Christie awoke early, so eager was she to see the precious prize.

  Barnaby got down on all fours and dragged the gun case from under Desmond’s cot. With reverent hands he laid it upon the unmade bed, while Christie peered over his shoulder.

  Desmond sat unnoticed at the table, his luminous eyes forlorn because he thought they had forgotten to bring him his little treat.

  Barnaby unbuckled the ammunition pouch on the side of the case.

  ‘Whew!’ He counted the bullets. ‘Look, Christie, nine of them. Aren’t they big?’

  Next he took out the gun. Christie leaned forward to put her hand on the shining barrel, but Barnaby took a step back.

  ‘Don’t touch it, stupid. It might be loaded.’

  He laid the gun upon the bed and sat looking down at it for a long time. Then he put his hand out and touched the polished walnut stock almost shyly.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Christie? I’m going to practise taking it apart now.’

  It looked like any other gun to Christie and she turned to poor Desmond.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ she said, seeing his crestfallen face, ‘you thought we forgot to bring you something nice. Well, we didn’t. Look, Desmond, a coffee cake Auntie baked yesterday. We’ll put raspberry jam and peanut butter on it and it’ll taste even better!’

  Singing ‘The Big Rock Candy Mountain’ she began to prepare their snack.

  Barnaby, dismantling the gun and memorising each piece as he did so, turned irritably and told her to shut up.

  Christie shrugged and offered him a slice of coffee cake, covered with nuts, raisins, icing, and now peanut butter and jam.

  But he was too fascinated by the gun to be interested in food. Lovingly, almost gloatingly, he looked at the parts on the bed, his sharp eyes noting the shape and contours of each piece. Then, confidently and unerringly, he reassembled the gun and turned proudly to Christie.

  ‘I did it. Give me a slice of coffee cake now. I’ll practise some more later, then tomorrow, or Thursday, when I’m sure Sergeant Coulter won’t be here, I’ll try firing it. Just once, to make sure. There are only nine bullets. That’ll leave me eight. I can’t take a chance of wasting any more or anyone hearing the shot. Give me a bigger piece than that, you and Desmond are one ahead of me. Isn’t it beautiful? I’ll take it up on the mountain to fire it. That way if anyone hears it, they won’t know where the sound is from. Bigger than that, don’t be such a hog!’

  They sat cramming food into their mouths and feeling very much at peace with the world.

  Barnaby, earlier so tense and bad-tempered, was now mellow.

  ‘Christie, what do you want to be when you grow up?’

  Christie took a bite out of her last piece of cake, thought the better of it and handed the remainder to poor Desmond. She had eaten too much and she felt sick.

  ‘Rich, I guess.’

  ‘No, I mean besides that. I’m going to be rich, but I’m going to be something else too. I’m going to be a Mountie.’

  Christie wiped peanut butter from poor Desmond’s chin and turned to Barnaby.

  ‘You won’t be rich unless you kill your uncle. And don’t forget, you’ve got to give me a million dollars. I’d like to be a Mountie too, but I suppose girls can’t. I think I’ll marry Sergeant Coulter instead.’

  Barnaby jeered. ‘He won’t marry you, silly.’

  Christie tossed her head. ‘You don’t know everything.’

  ‘I didn’t say I did,’ said Barnaby, settling back. ‘Tell me more about MacNab.’

  ‘Nope.’

  Her mouth was set in that prim little line he hated.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you won’t tell me any more about Uncle.’

  Barnaby flushed with anger.

  ‘You wouldn’t like to hear any more.’

  ‘I would too.’

  ‘Well, you can’t.’

  There were times when it was useless to argue with him and Christie knew it. She cleared off the table, then pointed to the gun, which she didn’t like.

  ‘Put it away so I can make Desmond’s bed.’

  ‘Okay, but hurry. We’d better get a couple of graves done today.’

  As Christie straightened the bed an unlovely thought struck her. She turned and stared at Barnaby for a few seconds, then at poor Desmond, who was dozing with his head on his arms.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘if we blame the murder on poor Desmond, maybe Sergeant Coulter will hang him instead of us.’

  Barnaby thought that over for a while.

  ‘Well, it’s either him or us,’ he said with a sigh.

  Christie agreed.

  They took poor Desmond to the graveyard with them. He was afraid of the little garter snakes that slithered between the paths among the graves, so he sat on the rickety fence with his thumb in his mouth, watching them with gentle, unquestioning eyes.

  It was a lovely morning, not so unbearably hot as it had been lately, and when the three left the graveyard the children sniffed the fragrant air happily.

  Christie, holding poor Desmond’s hand, looked up at him.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Desmond. You’ll be an angel, of course.’

  The ever-agreeable Desmond nodded.

  ‘Do you think, Barnaby,’ Christie turned to him, ‘do you think Auntie will make a raspberry pie for dinner?’

  ‘No. She baked this morning, and she doesn’t bake twice the same day and she didn’t bake one this morning. I guess he will be.’

  ‘Will be what?’ Christie had dropped Desmond’s hand and was skipping after a butterfly.

  ‘An angel.’

  Barnaby suddenly burst into roars of laughter.

  Christie stopped and turned.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Gee, Christie, can’t you just see poor Desmond with long golden curls and a halo?’

  They laughed until their sides ached. Poor Desmond laughed with them, although he didn’t know why.

  WHILE THE CHILDREN kept themselves busy, Uncle had not been frittering away his time. Far from it, for Uncle had taken an extraordinary interest in gardening. He had bought a big shiny shovel from Mr Brooks, and had spaded up a twenty by twenty plot at the back of the cottage.

  He had also purchased two dozen rubbery, listless tomato plants which lay prone in the sun, like guardsmen fainting on parad
e. Occasionally, when Uncle happened to think of it, he threw the odd bucket of cold water on them.

  They were not important, for Uncle’s real interest in horticulture lay deep in the gloomy heart of the forest. A pit, six feet deep, five feet long and three feet wide.

  Uncle was returning from Mr Brooks’s store, where he had had to purchase a new shovel, having broken the shaft of the original in his enthusiasm for his work. He met face to face with Sergeant Coulter who was on his way to his father’s cottage for the weekend.

  Sergeant Coulter was weary from a day of giving evidence in court. It had been a particularly grisly murder case, and the hours of following the testimony and keeping mentally and physically at attention had left him exhausted.

  Sonny Gitskass Charlie, a youth of nineteen, was charged with patricide.

  He had hacked his father with an axe and when he was through with his parent he had hacked up the floor.

  His half-white mother had fled earlier, taking her younger children with her to hide in the bushes.

  His aged grandmother, through an interpreter, testified that when she had barricaded herself in the bedroom Gitskass had tried to break down the door with his axe.

  By the time Sergeant Coulter had been called in the father lay dying. The father insisted he had provoked his drunken son and that the youth had acted in self-defence.

  Then, at the old lady’s prodding, he had admitted he had begged Gitskass not to kill his grandmother. His exact words were, testified Sergeant Coulter, ‘I said, Sonny, don’t you chop your grandma.’

  In the witness stand, Sonny Gitskass Charlie stood sullen and unconcerned. He declared his grandmother was a liar, he had never attempted to kill her, and that he had murdered his father in self-defence.

  Sergeant Coulter felt certain the father had lied to protect his son. He believed the old woman, but he had no proof, and the grandmother had heard but not seen the crime.

  She was the daughter of a Nootka chief, and when she took the stand she pointed an accusing finger at her grandson. Through her interpreter she declared that Gitskass was just like his great-grandfather, insane and a murderer. He had, she said, killed her favourite son, and since she had sixteen other grandchildren, she could well spare Gitskass and she hoped the law would hang him.

  When Sonny Gitskass was led from the courtroom hand-cuffed to two Mounties, he turned his monolithic face to Albert and muttered softly: ‘You lie. So does the old woman. I’ll get you, horseman.’

  The merciless slanted eyes chilled Albert to the bone.

  He silently agreed with the old grandmother, Sonny Gitskass was as nutty as they came. For his own future peace of mind, he hoped very much that they would hang Sonny Gitskass Charlie.

  When Uncle paused before him, Albert sighed. He was really in no mood to talk, but politeness forced him to stop and smile.

  ‘Nothing like a bit of hard work when you reach forty,’ Uncle boomed heartily, patting the shovel. ‘Keeps the old waistline down. Ah, but I see you don’t have to worry about that yet, Sergeant!’

  Sergeant Coulter nodded and eyed the wicked Uncle. Major Murchison-Gaunt with his deep chest looked to him to be in exceedingly good shape. Not an ounce of fat on him, and Albert was an expert in judging such matters.

  Albert looked at the brilliant, cloudless sky.

  ‘We could certainly do with some rain,’ he ventured. ‘It’s hard on the gardens.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Uncle agreed. ‘But what a delightful spot this Island is, rain or no rain. Forests, the fields, gardens … the cottage looking out over the sea … chambered nautilus and all that. Why, do you know, I put crumbs on the veranda and the squirrels and chipmunks come right up and eat out of my hand. Tame as kittens, cheeky little rascals.’

  Albert smiled and nodded.

  ‘Yes, they’re cute, aren’t they? I had one for a pet when I was a boy.’

  He stared at Uncle, and he had a peculiar sensation as he did so. People very often did. It was the thought of the eyes behind the dark glasses. Albert decided it was because Uncle could see him and he couldn’t see Uncle. It put him at a disadvantage, somehow.

  ‘My, my, it is warm,’ Uncle drew his silken handkerchief from his pocket, shook it and mopped his gleaming brow. A carmined fluff of chipmunk fur floated like down and landed on Sergeant Coulter’s immaculate sleeve.

  Albert plucked it off absently.

  ‘Yes, it certainly is.’ And having exhausted his conversational store, he bade the Major good day.

  ‘Good day, my boy, good day.’

  Jolly old Uncle Sylvester strode briskly up the path, whistling ‘The Teddy Bear’s Picnic ’.

  When he reached the top of the path he turned and saw that the Mountie was out of sight.

  He smiled.

  Just plain luck about the girl being on the Island. So much more logical, two children drowning instead of one. Mischievous kiddies, they had already been rescued once, and he’d see they were rescued once again. The third time, they wouldn’t come up. Not that they were really going to drown, of course. Bodies had a way of washing back on shore, and it was important that these bodies should never be found.

  He was setting the stage carefully. The Islanders would remember them as naughty children who insisted on playing around dangerous waters.

  If it had been only Barnaby, even that stupid policeman might put two and two together. This way it very logically added up to five. Claire, Maude, Robert, Barnaby and little what’s her name.

  Uncle sighed. It wasn’t all beer and skittles. He would still continue to get the interest, but since the bodies would never be found, he’d have to wait seven years for the bulk of the estate.

  And certainly he had had no idea when he’d picked out this lonely little island, that that idiot officer of the law was an Island boy with an almost pathological affection for his native heath. As a matter of fact he’d always understood that Mounties were posted far from their stamping grounds. They had a reason, he supposed, R.C.M.P. always did, so he’d heard. He sniggered. They probably had Miss Proudfoot tagged as a red spy and the homespun sergeant was keeping her under surveillance.

  Nevertheless, the real-estate people had said no electricity, no church services, no doctor. He had assumed that, except in cases of emergency, the police would never visit the Island.

  Fortunately one could almost set one’s clock by the sergeant.

  Well, back to work. He was extremely interested in the transplanting of the huge ferns in the forest. If the root system was not disturbed, the beds dug deeply enough, and if they were watered frequently, they transplanted splendidly.

  And the way they grew! Six weeks after putting them on the grave, he probably wouldn’t be able to find it himself.

  Yes, a great man for gardening was Uncle.

  If you go down in the woods today,

  You’re sure of a big surprise.

  He had always liked that song.

  Reaching his father’s house, Albert first checked the honey-suckle vine. The earth about the roots seemed cracked and parched but the foliage was healthy. He got a rake, and using the handle as a probe he poked deep holes in a circle about the stem. Drawing up buckets of water from the well, he slowly filled the holes until the soil turned from ashgray to black.

  It was nearly dusk, he had not eaten since ten o’clock in the morning and, entering the cottage, he looked about absently for something to provide him with a dinner. Opening the cupboard he scanned the meager supply of food and took out a tin of pork and beans.

  He had half a mind to eat them cold, to save himself the trouble of lighting the stove, but he decided that that would be slovenly. He would heat the beans and make himself a cup of tea like a civilised man.

  Soon a fire was roaring in the stove, the beans were bubbling and the kettle boiling. The room was stifling from the long daytime sun and a mirage of dancing air hovered over the kitchen range.

  He opened the windows and the front door which faced directly on the
ocean and thankfully breathed in the sea breeze, then, seating himself at the table, he ate without haste or relish. Food did not mean a great deal to him; his father had been an indifferent cook and as a boy Albert’s favourite meal was canned corned beef with boiled cabbage and potatoes. It was still his preferred dish.

  He lit a cigarette with his tea and leaned back, conscious of the frugal pleasure the old man’s house always gave him. The room was almost as it had been the day his father died, for, like his father, Albert was not given to changes.

  The old man had lived in barracks for so many decades that the two-roomed cottage had a military starkness, unrelieved by ornaments or pictures. It never occurred to Albert to add any.

  The books on the windowsill mirrored father and son, half a dozen prim Victorian novels, including East Lynne, which had brought a secret dimness to Albert’s eye. There were a few classics, Cranford, Pride and Prejudice, Vanity Fair, and a Bible which neither father nor son ever bothered to open. Completing the library were Albert’s expensively bound and well cared for books on archaeology, plus a handful of volumes that might be expected to interest a policeman; books on ballistics, forensic medicine and dermatography. At the end of the row was a dog-eared, much thumbed little book, Palgrave’s Golden Treasury of verse. It was bound in soft red morocco and had belonged to Albert’s mother. Albert knew most of the poems by heart.

  On a spindly bamboo table stood an ancient Victrola from which a large black horn rose like a mute plea for sound. Beneath was a stack of phonograph albums filled with red-labelled records, as thick as piecrusts.

  As was his habit, Albert wound the machine and picked out his favourites. The records were all ones his mother had brought to the Island. Albert had never purchased any new ones and saw no need to. Caruso, Madame Melba, Harry Lauder and John McCormack were soon pealing out over the silent beach.

  He closed his eyes as the nasal, quavering tenor’s ‘Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms’ floated on the soft night air. It moved him deeply each time he heard it.

  Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,